


Connections

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>""Junctura cognoscitiva”, to give the condition its Latin, medical title. Although rare, affecting around 1 in every 650,000 of the British population, the condition was very widely known and recognised, mostly because of the romantic implications. Much had been made of the connections between soulmates in poetry, music and literature over the centuries, and it was heavily featured in many a tawdry romance novel."</p><p>Sherlock didn't believe in soulmates. Until his made it impossible not to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunaFromBakerStreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaFromBakerStreet/gifts).



> I wrote this based on one of the lovely [Luna's ](http://marriedetectives.tumblr.com/)headcanons:  
> "Johnlock Soulmates - Sherlock collapses into a coma after an accident during dangerous case and John has an accident in Afganistan at the same time. They both are sleeping and they share the dream where they meet in London, become friends and then a couple. But they wake up one day and think that it was just a dream. Everything changes when Mike Stamford introduced his friend John to they guy he works with, Sherlock…"
> 
> Thanks so much for the inspiration, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Not beta'd because I'm too impatient and I've been working on this for blooming ages. All mistakes, typos etc entirely my own. Comments welcome, or come find me on [tumblr](http://jamlockk.tumblr.com/).

**Connections**

 

Sherlock didn’t believe in soulmates.

When he was younger, he’d researched and experimented as much as he could, trying to learn everything about the world around him. His seemingly endless curiosity had caused many an argument with the nannies and staff on the Holmes estate, as all manner of household objects, food, plants and even garden furniture had fallen victim to his desire to catalogue every detail of his environment and expand his knowledge.

His brother Mycroft had intervened with the staff, pointing out that if one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor was converted to a laboratory, Sherlock could conduct his experiments and research away from the main living areas, leaving the rest of the household in relative peace.

Their father had eventually relented, still seeing the boy’s restless intellect as more of a nuisance than an advantage. He was a cold and unaffectionate man towards his youngest son, who craved positive attention. Mycroft himself was far from immune to the absence of familial warmth. However, he absolutely adored his brother, and made every effort he could manage to provide Sherlock with encouragement and support. It was through Mycroft that Sherlock was first introduced to the signs and symptoms of soulmate connections.

“Junctura cognoscitiva”, to give the condition its Latin, medical title. Although rare, affecting around 1 in every 650,000 of the British population, the condition was very widely known and recognised, mostly because of the romantic implications. Much had been made of the connections between soulmates in poetry, music and literature over the centuries, and it was heavily featured in many a tawdry romance novel. 

The condition had been first properly identified in the late 1920s, when medical practitioners were beginning to get to grips with the workings of the human brain. There had always been stories of people dying from broken hearts, or intense feelings of love driving them insane, but this was the first time in history the activity in the brain could be measured in some way. The results had shown something quite astonishing – in around 1% of humans, a connection was formed between two minds, a love so strong that each could feel the other in some way in their consciousness. The afflicted would never see a face, or hear a voice, or know a name, but there would always be a presence there, the other half of the connection pulling on them like the thin thread of a stitch in heavy cloth. Essentially, they would feel a little of each other’s emotions, maybe see glimpses of each other’s dreams. They would always feel as though there was something missing, like they were a puzzle piece with which only their soulmate could fit.

Contemporary medical research showed that the connection, or “tether” as it was popularly known, was formed from birth, but normally didn’t present until puberty. In the case of the very deepest connections, the person was always aware of their tether, and in acute cases it took extremely potent medication and intense psychological therapy to prevent the influence causing catastrophic damage in the mind. The neurochemistry of a tether could be incredibly strong and destructive. Being tethered was universally recognised as a serious medical affliction, and despite or perhaps because of the inherent romanticism, the general public was sympathetic, if unintentionally patronising.

Occasionally sufferers experienced a fluctuating tether throughout their lives, and often the constantly increasing and receding presence could drive the sufferer to the edge of insanity, unable to disassociate from the other person’s emotions trapped in their mind. Almost all of those with such a severe form of the condition succumbed to fatal addiction in some way, becoming desperately dependent on illicit substances to drown out the noise.

Neither was finding and meeting the subject of the connection a guarantee of relief. Some people spent their entire lives searching, and bankrupted themselves into permanent, abject poverty fruitlessly travelling the world. When one half of a tether died, it could destroy the remaining person, as they were slowly consumed by overwhelming grief.

Very occasionally though, two tethered people who were meant to be together found one another, and shared an intense and binding love that seemed endless and indestructible.

Sherlock had been aware of his tether for as long as he could remember. In his youth he had furiously researched the condition, seeking any answers as to how or why tethers formed, and if it was at all possible to sever them completely without any significant consequences. His extensive research came to naught; instances of illegal experimentation to determine the root causes of a tether resulted in the death of the subject in every single case, as did any attempt to break the connection. The only course of treatment were powerful drugs, and even then, each person’s body reacted differently to the types and dosages.

Mycroft often saw the effects of his little brother’s connection, the confusion and loneliness in sharing feelings with someone you didn’t know. Sherlock’s tether was usually an unobtrusive, somewhat comforting presence, but throughout his childhood it had occasionally caused traumatic emotional reactions in the boy. It seemed whoever was at the other end of the connection was suffering too, the link between them forcing them to share each other’s misery. Sherlock had at times felt inexplicably and deeply sorrowful, an overwhelming sense of melancholy creeping through his veins. At other times he felt flashes of a deep, white-hot rage that seemed to burn into him, right to his core. In his tether the rage was apparently very rarely unleashed, instead it was clearly restrained and kept hidden just below the surface.

Occasionally Sherlock experienced a terror so powerful it sent him into a self-destructive spiral, crying uncontrollably and lashing out at anyone who came near him. He was intensely frustrated at being unable to identify the source of the terror, where the threat was coming from. It was as though there was a constant physical danger for no apparent reason emanating from a volatile individual, someone very close to his tether that should represent happiness and love, but instead brought only anguish and pain.

At times like those Mycroft tried to reassure and comfort him, gently explaining that his tether was feeling these powerful emotions, and through the connection between them was unwittingly sharing them with Sherlock. He advised Sherlock that he should endeavour to train himself to control his own feelings, lest he influence his connection in the same way or worse, cause himself irreparable psychological damage.

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You would do well to remember that,” Mycroft had murmured, fully aware of the consequences of allowing a tether to begin to consume your heart and mind. His own experience had been absolutely wretched and had nearly destroyed him, and he was determined that his beloved little brother would not suffer the same fate.

Sherlock had taken the advice very seriously, distancing himself from other children and everyone around him, including, to Mycroft’s lasting regret, his brother. For a long time Mycroft had been the only thing close to a companion that Sherlock had had, but their difference in age had taken him away to London and Sherlock had been sent off to complete his school education.

The boys at school had taunted and bullied him relentlessly for his coldness and otherworldly appearance, calling him “freak” and “machine”, and beating him on a daily basis. It hadn’t helped that Sherlock was the youngest boy ever to attend the prestigious school, and was by far the cleverest pupil they had ever had. He had constantly outshone his older classmates, and they hated him for his intelligence. He rarely deliberately stooped to rubbing their noses in it, but sometimes couldn’t resist when his teachers repeatedly called on him during lessons. He merely responded with correct answer after correct answer, much to the irritation and jealousy of his peers. The beatings in the dormitory after curfew and lights out became part of his routine, and he continued to shroud himself with a seemingly impenetrable cloak of arrogance and superiority to cope. His teachers remained ignorant of his suffering, assuming the bruises and marks were the result of normal, boyhood roughhousing. It was only the intervention of the headmaster, probably acting under guidance from Mycroft, which made the beatings cease. The insults and slurs, whispered to him across the darkness of the dormitory every night, continued unabated. Each and every word was hurtful, but Sherlock determined never to show it, and was almost certain none of it had been shared by his tether.

Sherlock left school for university at the tender age of sixteen, hoping that the academic environment of one of Britain’s most ancient institutions would shield him from the emotional turmoil of his tether, who was unmistakably experiencing danger and heartbreak almost daily. He was unfortunately mistaken, and although there were no physical attacks during his time studying chemistry at Cambridge, he graduated feeling more alone than ever. The mind palace he had so carefully crafted became his solace, and it was here that he could cage the feelings of his tether in a special room. This allowed him to use the rest of his racing brain to explore and experiment to try to find some quiet, and it was in pursuit of this quiet that he had first come to the attention of the then Sergeant Gregory Lestrade.

Lestrade had found him shivering in an abandoned house on a dodgy estate in East London, dirty, dishevelled and high as a kite. Even in this state, Sherlock had deduced the good policeman immediately and loudly, getting every detail right to Lestrade’s great surprise. He’d taken Sherlock back to the station for questioning in relation to a string of burglaries in the neighbourhood, suspecting junkies seeking bounty to sell in exchange for their next fix. In the car on the way there, Sherlock had explained feverishly that the suspects Lestrade should actually be looking for were a gang of three teenagers trying to pay off their questionable gambling debts before their parents found out. Lestrade was once again astonished, and having deposited the skittish young man in a cell by himself, set out to follow the investigative course Sherlock had outlined. Three arrests later, and he was offering the filthy twenty-something a deal: get clean, find somewhere decent to live, and Lestrade would let him help on some cases.

Sherlock jumped at the chance; even through the fug of his high he had been excited and eager to find the answers, and investigating cases for the police seemed like the perfect alternative to his other, 7%, solution.

His tether apparently agreed, for it dimmed somewhat for a while, as though the person had found some kind of brief happiness with someone else. Sherlock dismissed the disappointment welling up in him at this thought. If his tether was happy, then it would leave him alone.

That was just fine. Alone, alone would protect him.

******    

The solution was so obvious, even Lestrade’s team of idiot lackeys couldn’t fail to see it. And yet, they had.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the crime scene, his mind focused on the problem at hand. As usual, the Met had been out of their depth on this one and had called in the world’s only consulting detective.

Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes closed as he explored the events leading up to the murder in his mind’s eye. Anderson was wittering on in the background, telling Lestrade that this was the last time, he was going to go above Lestrade’s head about inviting a civilian into official police business. Lestrade was just sighing, and waiting patiently for the forensics “expert” to quit ranting and get on with collecting the evidence Sherlock had immediately pointed out on arriving.

At least this case had the potential to be distracting for a few hours, if not in any way intriguing. Lestrade had described a body in an empty warehouse, naked except for his socks and shoes, with a six-inch knife buried up to the hilt in his neck. No signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle. The post-mortem would determine the victim’s toxicology, but Sherlock already had a pretty good idea of what it would say. A mixture of speed and PCP, the man had taken it with his boyfriend ( _yes,_ _Anderson, his boyfriend - recently divorced, older man trying to keep up with a shallow, twenty-something, petty drug dealer who’d chatted him up in a sleazy bar a week ago)_ ¸ who then had some considerably violent hallucinations and murdered him with a kitchen knife he carried for protection. Some protection, Sherlock thought dryly.

He opened his mouth to launch a scathing verbal attack on Anderson’s observational skills (appalling, just like his dress sense and ridiculously _fluffy_ facial hair), when his thoughts suddenly came crashing to a halt. His tether was in mortal danger and though calm, was experiencing a severely traumatic event. Sherlock could feel adrenaline pulsing through his body, heat on his neck and a faint smell of cordite in his nostrils.

It had never been this strong before. He could normally push the tether’s invasive presence to the very depths of his mind palace, locked securely away like his brother had taught him. Now, the tether was assaulting his every sense, invading his mind and consciousness like a virus. He noticed distantly that he was shaking, and as he saw Lestrade approach him he held up an arm to force the DI to back off. Sherlock was losing his iron control, unable to cope with the sudden force of the emotions swirling around and through him, and he walked on unsteady legs towards the dark entryway at the back of the warehouse. There was an old office space back there, quiet and out of sight of the concerned faces of the police personnel around him, where he could focus on getting his feelings back under control again. He stumbled towards the office, wondering dimly if Lestrade’s team had been through there yet, when the door unexpectedly flew open and someone shot past him, knocking him backwards to land stupidly on his arse.

The suspect sprang out of the room armed with a hefty length of metal, the leg of an old desk, Sherlock dimly realised, clearly still heavily under the influence of the drugs in his system. Sherlock heard Lestrade shouting at his men to take the man down, but the killer jerked away from them snarling. He’d forgotten about Sherlock, still sprawled awkwardly in the office doorway behind him.

Sherlock forced his tether’s emotions away and leapt up. He was attempting to distract the frantically high man, to allow Lestrade, his taser drawn, to close the distance between them safely and make the arrest. But as Sherlock quickly advanced, he suddenly felt a sharp sting burst in his shoulder, followed swiftly by the most intense pain he had ever experienced, causing him to cry out. The suspect spun around instantly and swung the metal leg of the desk at him with brutal force and surprising accuracy.

The dense metal connected with the side of Sherlock’s skull with a sickening thud, and then everything went black.

******    

Sherlock opened his eyes to find he was standing in his Baker Street flat. He glanced around him, taking in the familiar, comforting scent of his home. His violin was resting against the back of his chair, as if he’d been playing, had gotten distracted and had set it down carefully, ready to be picked up and the melody resumed. There were files and papers scattered all over every surface, on the sofa, on the floor, spread out over the coffee table. Even on the mantelpiece, under Billy the skull.

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember which case this chaos related to. It wasn’t the dead man in the warehouse, Lestrade had only called about him this morning and Sherlock hadn’t had chance to steal any files from the DI’s office at New Scotland Yard yet. He bent down to pick up the folder on top of the nearest pile, but when he opened it each and every page was blank.

Puzzled and annoyed, he moved to another pile, picking up the stack of paper precariously balanced on the arm of the other chair, the tatty old plaid one. These pages too were blank.

Tossing them over his shoulder in frustration, Sherlock paced through the sitting room, trying to recall what he had been working on. He remembered Lestrade’s call, the body and the warehouse, and the suspect jumping out at him like a crazed jack-in-the-box. But after that, nothing.

His phone. He’d grab his phone and call Lestrade. The DI was bound to have the suspect in custody by now, and with any luck the man would have come down safely and be ready to talk about his supply chain. Excellent, Sherlock could work with very little information. He could bring down a dangerous circle of drug dealers operating out of questionable gay clubs by nightfall.

He reached into his suit jacket pocket and found… nothing. Thrusting his hands into his hair in exasperation, he looked around to see if he had set it down somewhere, but it was nowhere to be found.

“I need my phone,” he snapped at the empty flat.

Except the flat wasn’t empty. Someone was standing in the doorway.

Sherlock felt the man’s eyes on his back as he turned to face him, fully prepared to hurl insults and deductions at the stranger with all the vehemence he could muster. Something in the man’s eyes stopped him in his tracks.

The man was short in stature, but seemed to Sherlock to be filling the room with his presence. He was compact and sturdy, the subtle strength of his physique camouflaged by the simple jeans, the plaid shirt and the woolly jumper he wore under his jacket. His sandy blonde hair was closely cropped, and there were faint lines of luminous silver running through it. His eyes were of a deep navy, crinkled slightly at the corners as he smiled gently. His smile, his smile was _lovely_ , and Sherlock was more than a little startled at that thought.

“Here, use mine,” the man said, holding out his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered once more over this incredibly gorgeous man who’d materialised in his flat before reaching out to grasp the proffered phone.

His mind was racing, trying to catalogue every aspect of what he saw. His deductions usually came upon him quickly, but now they ran through his brain at breakneck speed and it was all he could do not to press his hands tightly into his eye sockets in an attempt to make them slow down.

Tan lines, close-cropped hair, stance; military. Afghanistan, or Iraq?

Soft hands, strong though, caring nature, a hint of concern in his eyes: doctor?

Cane, holds his shoulder a little awkwardly but almost like he’s forgotten about the pain: limp is psychosomatic, shoulder wound is real.

Sherlock felt a little flush spread up his neck at that thought, as the memory of the pain bursting in his own shoulder leapt into the forefront of his mind. Hastily pushing it aside, he looked down at the phone in his hand, then back to the stranger.

Fairly new model but not brand new, inscription on the back, tell-tale scratches on the sides and at the bottom: gift from alcoholic brother who he’s no longer close to, possibly because of the drinking, more likely because he cheated on his wife.

“Afghanistan,” a voice murmured quietly. “How… how did you know all that?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet the wonderful blue ones of the man in the doorway. He hadn’t been aware he was speaking out loud. He paused for a moment before answering.

“I can see it,” he said simply. “I can read your military service in your haircut and your stance and your cane, I can read your medical expertise in your hands and your eyes and your gentle speech. I can read your brother’s drinking in your phone.”

He stopped, waiting for the inevitable reaction to his deductions. He learned quickly that, far from being impressed by what he could tell just from looking at them, the ability to lay out all of their secrets almost instantly made people hostile and vicious.

“That… that’s extraordinary. Brilliant,” the man breathed.

Sherlock was astounded and only just managed to prevent his mouth dropping open in surprise. He tried desperately to ignore the bubble of warmth in his chest at the soft praise.

“You think so?” he asked tentatively, hating the slight craving that had crept in his voice.

“Yes, that was absolutely extraordinary. Amazing.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock confessed.

The man in the doorway stepped forward, and Sherlock unconsciously took a step closer to him, inexplicably drawn to this warm, pleasant presence here in front of him.

“What do people normally say?” the man asked.

“Piss off,” Sherlock stated flatly, avoiding the man’s eyes for the first time.

The laughter that filled the air made Sherlock’s heart sing. He looked back at the stranger standing just a few feet away; he had thrown his head back and the cheerful sound of his giggles poured into Sherlock’s ears like warm honey and sunlight. The sound was soon joined by a low rumbling, Sherlock catching himself off-guard by chuckling deep in his chest and throat. It had been so long since he’d laughed, he couldn’t remember the last time he shared it with someone.

The man was wiping his face with his sleeve, his eyes full of wry mirth, and stepped forward again extending his hand in greeting.

“John Watson,” he said, still grinning.

Sherlock hesitated, then covered the outstretched hand with his own, much larger one.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied.

The man – John – was smiling as they shook hands for a moment then he let Sherlock’s hand drop again. Sherlock felt a pang in his chest at the loss of contact, but chose to ignore it.

“Oh, and it’s my alcoholic sister, not brother,” John murmured, smirking. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, scrunching his nose in displeasure. There’s always something.

John was looking around the flat, clearly keen to see more, but maintaining his polite manner at the same time. Sherlock gestured to the piles of paper, and John grinned widely, reaching down to pick up the file Sherlock had so unceremoniously tossed over his shoulder.

Sherlock was about to tell John not to bother with that one, that for some annoying reason it was blank, when he saw words and images slowly become visible in John’s hands. Mesmerised, he watched as the file filled itself with information; reports from Molly’s pathology lab, crime scene photos, evidence analysis, interrogation notes from Lestrade.

John was reading through it all with a look of intense concentration, and Sherlock watched the changes in his body with open fascination. John’s stance became more solid and he somehow seemed to Sherlock to be an even larger presence in the room. His shoulders squared, and he stood taller, his cane forgotten in his hand. His mouth was set into a tight line – what he was reading was clearly making him very angry but he was holding it in check, the fury just bubbling away beneath the surface.

Sherlock glanced down at the file John was holding; ah, that would explain the strong emotional reaction.

That case was still unsolved, much to Sherlock deep annoyance. The vicious assault and murder of a young homeless boy had left the police baffled; barely any physical evidence and no viable suspects. His body had been found in a disused bus shelter, not far from a busy industrial estate that the homeless sometimes gravitated to in the depths of winter. The metal huts and shipping containers on the mostly empty estate provided some shelter from the bitter winds and freezing rain, and the boy had been known the community huddled there.

He’d lain in the bus shelter for some time before he was discovered, and the time and harsh winter weather had not been on their side, degrading what little evidence there was and making their task a hundred times more difficult.

Lestrade had been miserable at the crime scene, Sherlock recalled, and angry that a young life had been so brutally ruined and wasted, the teenager left to rot not far from the only people who’d noticed he was missing. Sherlock had felt stricken with sorrow for just a moment before marshalling his feelings and shoving them aside. Feeling sad wouldn’t help the boy, he rebuked himself, bending down to examine the body.

Two months on and the perpetrator responsible for the poor child’s meaningless death was still unpunished. Molly had confirmed the boy’s name and date of birth; Stephen Penrose, age 14, and his time of death was determined at approximately three weeks before he was discovered. Cause of death, a ragged stab wound in his leg, severing his femoral artery, likely made with a long shard of broken glass. He died pretty quickly, small mercy given the extent of his other injuries. His body had taken heavy punishment before the cut that finally claimed his life.

With no clear motive, no CCTV (despite Mycroft’s contribution to the investigation, which Sherlock knew was entirely at Lestrade’s behest) and no DNA evidence, the case had gone immediately cold. No-one had come forward to claim the body. His father had died several years previously, his mother was deemed unfit to look after him and Stephen had run away from the care home shortly after arriving there. Lestrade had wanted to spend more time tracking down the boy’s other relatives, but the pressures of fresh crimes and cases had gotten in the way. He’d given Sherlock the file without protest, the earnest hope obvious in his eyes, hope Sherlock would be able to make headway where the Met had run into a brick wall.

Sherlock had contacted his homeless network and had discovered that Stephen had been close to another boy of a similar age, known as Joe, and that they had both appeared on the streets about a year prior to Stephen’s disappearance. Many of the other homeless people who had known him had assumed he’d returned to his mother, or made his way back to the care home. Sherlock set about finding out as much as he could about Stephen, but even he was struggling. It seemed the case was destined to remain unsolved.

Now, he wanted more than ever to bring Stephen’s killer to justice. The look of determined anger on John’s face indicated that John was in definite agreement.

“So, what do we know?” John asked. “Talk me through it.” He strode across the room and sat down in the tatty plaid chair, looking up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock noticed that John had left his cane beside the door, and his stomach did a funny flip at the sight of John in that chair, just sitting there, looking like he _belonged_. Casting aside his delight at John’s staying, Sherlock focused more intently on the case. This was his Work, where he excelled, and he was keen to get stuck in with fresh eyes. Maybe he’d see something he had missed the first time.

John was nodding, encouraging Sherlock to begin speaking, and was preparing to write down some notes in a notebook that seemed to have appeared in his hands on the arm of the chair.

Sherlock related every detail of the case, pacing the flat as John settled himself and listened, thoroughly rapt as Sherlock recited what he’d found out.

“Stephen Penrose, 14, disappeared from care and lived on the streets for approximately 11 months with a boy of a similar age, Joe, suddenly disappeared once more, body discovered in a disused bus shelter only 500 yards or so where he was last seen, bled out from a deep wound 3 inches long in his left thigh, severed femoral artery, multiple contusions covering his upper body, indicative of brutal attack from an assailant approximately 5’ 6” tall, and from what can tell by the pattern of the bruising, the attacker was left-handed. The killer dumped Stephen’s body and left it to the elements for three weeks before it was discovered by a team of three new security guards, just introduced by the owner of the industrial estate, looking to drive the vagrants from his property. After clearing the main areas the guards had been checking the bus shelter for squatters. No clear motive, the physical evidence has been degraded by time and weather, just a few generic fibres and no viable fingerprints is all we have to go on. That, and the boy’s tether medication…”

Sherlock paused, frowning. He’d kept that fact between him and Molly until now. The toxicology report on Stephen’s blood had shown a spike in a particular hormone known for being the principle tether treatment in recently presented adolescents. Molly had frowned and made to search through her computer to figure out what the hormone was when Sherlock had quietly enlightened her. Her initial reaction was surprise and she started to ask him how he knew this. Molly Hooper may be a lot of things but stupid definitely isn’t one of them. She promptly closed her mouth, cutting off the question as she realised. Then she’d just nodded, and carried on as normal. Molly wasn’t tethered but now she knew that Sherlock was. He was silently very grateful for her discretion.

Sherlock glanced at John, who had set down his pen and was staring off into the empty space between them, his mouth set in that same tight line as before. He was unconsciously clenching and unclenching his left hand into a fist against the sofa cushion. He was angry again.

“Do you think he was killed for his medication?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“Although it is often mistaken for illicit substances, Peroxycortin does not provide any kind of decent high, and its bitter scent is usually enough to put off even the most desperate junkie.”

He would know, during his own brief stint in the city’s drug dens he’d been approached more times than he could count by addicts who had heard of his deductive abilities. They would bring him mysterious substances, acquired from god knows where, and expect him to figure out what they were. Frequently they were just handing him street drugs that were laced with baking soda or some other filler, but once or twice he’d saved some idiot from snorting or injecting something more dangerous. The puzzle of working out the chemical makeup of the substance presented to him using what limited resources were available had proved a bright lure for his restless mind, and he’d often been paid for his services in substances of a much higher quality.

“So, why kill him then? He was just a kid, I mean, Jesus.” John scrubbed a hand down his face, shifting and fidgeting in the chair. Sherlock saw the action and walked through to the kitchen to make tea. He called through to John:

“Stephen’s death was clearly unintentional, the shard of glass was a weapon of opportunity and the fatal wound was inflicted during the struggle. Despite a year on the streets Stephen was strong enough to fend off some of the blows raining down on him, and judging from the scratches on his knuckles got one or two punches in himself.”

“This feels like it was personal,” John muttered grimly. “Look at the savagery of these injuries, someone was very, very angry.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Split lip and severely swollen right eye, two cracked ribs, fractured collarbone, a vicious kick to the spleen causing internal bruising. They’ve left impressions in the skin, down to the lower levels of the dermis, with the force of their punches,” he said. He handed John his mug of tea, glancing down at the photos in John’s hand. John was right, the anger was evident in the savage beating Stephen had suffered. There were indentations in Stephen’s skin, visible now the blood covering his body and clothes had been washed away. The pattern of the bruising and the impressions though, they almost looked like…

The image came to him in a flash – one of the people he’d spoken to trying to find Joe, a surly young man named Danny, had been wearing a distinctive ring with a woven band that Sherlock was sure would match the marks in the photo.

“Oh!” he exclaimed as the pieces fell together neatly in his mind. His outburst startled John, who looked up at him in amusement and expectation.

Sherlock was reaching for his coat and running out of the flat when he realised John was beside him, grinning from ear to ear. Sherlock threw his arm up to get the attention of the approaching taxi and they got in, Sherlock barking the address at the cabbie.

“So, what’s the plan? I mean, obviously, you know who it is you’re looking for, but you can’t just go haring off without me. Stephen deserves justice, I want to help you find it for him. Even if all I do is run around after you, you lanky git.”

John was still grinning, but his eyes were serious. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but nodded. John had helped him already, drawing his attention to a detail he had recognised but then dismissed. And having a military doctor around could come in very useful in future, too.

Sherlock took a moment to look at John, to properly take him in again. John was turned away from him, watching the traffic outside the window of the taxi. His hand was settled in the space between them, and it was close enough that Sherlock could almost brush against it with his own. He wondered what John’s touch would feel like on his skin, how those strong hands would feel in his own, how the sun-warmed skin of those fingers would look weaved around and between his own long, pale ones. What would the trigger callouses on John’s left hand feel like caressing his face? What would John’s lips feel like pressed against his own?

Shaking his head in annoyance, Sherlock dismissed the thoughts. He couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, even by something as intriguing as John. He closed his eyes and ran through the details of the case once more.

When he opened his eyes they were standing beside a shipping container with a scraggly-looking girl of about nineteen. John was asking her gently about Stephen, coaxing her to tell them what she knew. Sherlock didn’t remember how they’d got here, but decided not to dwell on it.

“…loved Joe,” the girl was saying. “Danny just… didn’t get it. I knew, I didn’t tell them I knew of course, but it was obvious. Even a prick like Danny could see that Stephen and Joe just fit.”

Sherlock focused his gaze on the girl, and she involuntarily took half a step backwards under his scrutiny. She had heavy but ill-fitting boots on her feet, her hair was a matted, dirty blonde, and her oversized sweater and baggy leggings just emphasised her thin frame. She wasn’t lying to them, and the twitch of her face and the way she rubbed her arms in the cold air indicated genuine care for both Stephen and Joe.

“Joe was Stephen’s tether, wasn’t he?” Sherlock asked quietly.

The girl nodded, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. “They were so happy to have found each other, Joe told me what had happened to Stephen at that care place when they found out he was tethered. Stephen knew it would only get worse, especially after he figured out his tether was a boy, not a girl.” She sniffed and wiped her sleeve across her face. John reached into his pocket and held out a clean tissue, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she sniffled. Sherlock watched the small gesture settle the girl’s nerves and silently marvelled at the simplicity and sincerity in John’s actions.

“So, Stephen and Joe were…?” John started carefully, leaving the question hanging. The girl looked up at him, confused, then shook her head.

“No, it wasn’t like that, not really. I mean, I don’t think it was. They mostly just loved being together, being with each other, y’know? Like they could just spend all day in silence, just enjoying each other’s company. I don’t know anyone I could spend a whole day with without talking, without getting bored.” She frowned, and screwed up her nose in disgust.

“That wasn’t what made Danny jealous though. He thinks he loves Joe and he hated that Joe wouldn’t give him anything, he hated that Joe was happy with Stephen. Then, about a month ago, Joe got sick. Stephen took him to this doctor everyone knows, one of the good ones. He doesn’t turn you away if you’ve not had a bath in a while. The doctor told him that Stephen should go back to where they were staying and get a few of his things so Joe could get better faster. Anyway, Stephen came back and told me where Joe was. He said he was going to do something special for Joe when he was well enough to come back, and off he went. That was the last time I saw Stephen, or Joe.”

She was crying now, tears falling freely down her face. John reached out to pull her to his chest, and though she initially resisted, she quickly folded into his embrace and began sobbing quietly into his jacket. John shushed and mumbled to her, his voice gentle and his hand brushing up and down her back to calm her. Sherlock watched in admiration, amazed by how easily John offered comfort to a complete stranger. He was struck by the thought that, if it were left to Sherlock, the girl would probably have given them nothing. Sherlock knew people did not respond well to his aloofness and his deductions; his ability to get answers was almost entirely based on forcefulness or deception. People trusted John, opened up to him and his kindness, his caring manner. They obviously didn’t see the fierce strength and current of danger hiding underneath John’s woolly jumpers and easy smile. The thought cause warmth to course through Sherlock’s body, a feeling of affection he recognised but normally associated with his tether. The strength of his attraction to John was becoming increasingly inconvenient and confusing.

The girl had stopped crying and John released her from his arms. She looked up at him gratefully, and he smiled encouragingly. Sherlock cleared his throat and carefully asked his next question.

“Did you see Danny that day too?”

Still looking at John, the girl nodded. “Danny came by later, looking for Joe. I told him to leave them alone and he hit me, punched me in the face. Then he stormed off. Do you think…” she trailed off, her face crumpling and a hand flying to her mouth in horror.

“We’ll find him, don’t worry. If Danny did this, we’ll make sure he’s punished for it.” John’s voice was soft but the steel in it was unmistakable. He squeezed the girl’s shoulder one more time before they walked away.

“So, Danny obviously found Stephen not Joe and they argued. Danny lost his temper and started beating Stephen, but the smaller boy unexpectedly fought back. Danny overpowered Stephen and stabbed him in the leg with the glass during the struggle. Stephen bled out and died quickly and Danny panicked, dragging the body to the bus shelter and covering him with rubbish to conceal it,” Sherlock outlined the crime as they walked, noticing John’s clenching and unclenching hand again.

“So, we find Danny, then what? Turn him over to the police?” John asked. Sherlock hummed and nodded, pulling out his (John’s) phone to text Lestrade.

“But you said there was hardly any physical evidence, how are they going to convict him of murder without any evidence?” John was frustrated and increased his pace to a march, matching Sherlock’s own long stride.

“We’ll have to get him to confess,” Sherlock admitted, “Otherwise he will walk free and Stephen’s death will go unpunished.”

John grunted in acknowledgement. “How are we going to find Danny though?”

Sherlock smiled. “We visit with the good doctor,” he replied.

******    

Joe was convalescing in a room on his own. The doctor sighed sadly, Joe was not coping with the loss of his tether and had had to be heavily sedated and restrained for his own safety. It wasn’t clear how much longer Joe’s body would be able to hold on while his mind tried to cope with the grief.

“Jesus,” John muttered under his breath. “I’ve seen it before but never to this extent. The grief is literally destroying his mind. He’s dying of a broken heart,” he explained for Sherlock’s benefit.

Sherlock needed no such explanation, he was fully aware of the effects of death on a tether. His brain helpfully began to bring up images from his childhood, of a time when he had been too young to fully understand how and why his brother was suffering so much… Scowling, he forced the door to that area of his mind palace to slam shut, and turned to the doctor.

“Has he had any visitors?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, just the one actually. Big lad, think he said his name was Johnny, or Donny, or something? Bit weird actually, he kind of stared at poor Joe through the door. Didn’t say anything else. He just left, in fact. You could probably catch up with him… hey!”

Sherlock took off towards the entrance, hearing John’s hasty apologies to the doctor as he followed. He knew what Danny looked like, and as he burst through the doors he caught sight of him walking away. Danny turned and saw him, and set off running down a side street and into the alley behind the safehouse. Shouting to John to go around the other way and cut Danny off, Sherlock ran after him.

He ran into the alley but Danny was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly he felt an arm around his throat and a cold blade at his neck. Danny’s breath was hot in his ear as he pulled Sherlock backwards, further into the damp alley.

“I didn’t mean it, it was an accident. He wouldn’t shut up, he just kept saying Joe was happy, happy with him and I lost my temper. Stupid bastard wouldn’t go down though, the glass was in my hand before I knew it.” Danny huffed a laugh and pressed his knife harder into Sherlock’s neck, drawing blood.

“You can’t prove a thing. It was an accident anyway. If I’d known what would happen to Joe, I never would’ve…”

Sherlock tried to scoff, but the arm around his throat made it difficult. He was struggling for air as Danny pressed more firmly against his throat, the knife still digging dully into his skin. He was starting to wonder where this was going; Danny was right, they couldn’t prove anything, even if the ring matched the impressions in Stephen’s skin. So why was Danny holding a knife to his neck, and where was John?

His second question was answered just as he reached the conclusion to his first. Stephen was not the first boy Danny had beaten the living shit out of. Danny enjoyed having power over others, how many others had suffered at his hands? Killing Stephen though, that had given him a taste for stabbing, hence the stolen knife.

“You’ll want to drop that,” came John’s voice from behind them.

Danny let out a squeak and immediately released Sherlock, who dropped clumsily to his knees to regain his breath.

The knife clattered from Danny’s hand and Sherlock stood up slowly to kick it away. He turned to see John calmly holding a gun to the back of Danny’s head, craning his neck to see if Sherlock was alright. Their eyes met and Sherlock’s heart leapt into his aching throat. The warmth was back, flooding through his veins at the sight of this army doctor, steady and caring, looking back at him.

“Get down on your knees now, Danny,” John was saying, “The police are on their way and you’re going to tell them what happened to Stephen. You owe Joe that much.”

Danny’s bravado was rapidly fading as reality began to set in with John’s words.

“If it were up to me,” John continued coldly, “I’d see you tried for Joe’s murder as well. You know he’s dying in there, right?”

Danny whimpered and started crying. John snorted in disgust, tucking the gun back into his jeans. The snivelling killer was clearly no longer a threat and Lestrade was at the top of the alley, the doctor caring for Joe pointing down towards them.

Lestrade walked towards them, arms outstretched in a gesture that said: _Well?_

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, John Watson. And Danny, the man who killed Stephen Penrose,” Sherlock declared by way of introduction.

Lestrade furrowed his brow, then drew out his handcuffs to restrain Danny properly. Sally Donovan was waiting at the top of the alley too, glaring down at Sherlock. He ignored her as Lestrade spoke softly to Danny, letting him know his rights.

John moved to stand by Sherlock’s side. Lestrade walked past them pushing a still weeping Danny in front of him, and mumbled something about statements and so on. Sherlock wasn’t listening, he was too busy watching John again. He could feel the energy buzzing around and from John, and all he wanted now was to get them both back to Baker Street and make John stay there indefinitely.

John met his eyes and grinned shamelessly.

“So, what now?”

******    

They stumbled into the flat, still laughing. Sherlock struggled out of his coat and let it fall to the floor as he tried to hang it up and missed the hook completely.

He’d never been this drunk in his life and it made him a bit dizzy. John was sniggering, taking off his jacket and slinging it carelessly over the back of the sofa.

Sherlock tried to fix him with an imperious glare, but John just giggled and flopped down into his chair. Sherlock gave up and sank into the leather chair opposite John’s.

They stayed like that for a while, the laughter dying down in their throats as the air between them grew heavy and still. John reached for his drink, and Sherlock took a sip from the glass he didn’t remember being in his hand.

He drained the glass and set it down on the table beside him, running his tongue over his lips to chase the taste of the whisky. He didn’t really care for whisky but it seemed to be what John was drinking so Sherlock had joined in. He paused when he noticed John’s gaze.

John was staring at his mouth.

Sherlock quickly tried to deduce John’s intentions: elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s lips. As an experiment (to confirm his hypothesis, if you will), Sherlock slowly licked his lips and bit down gently on his full lower lip.

John’s breathing quickened and he made a low moaning sound in his throat. So, Sherlock surmised, interested then.

He didn’t get any further with the thought however, because John was out of his chair and kneeling in front of Sherlock, his small strong hands on Sherlock’s thighs and his warm mouth pressed against Sherlock’s own. He sighed into John’s mouth, parting his lips just slightly and allowing John to deepen the kiss.

They lost themselves for a while, just enjoying the sensations. When John finally pulled away, Sherlock opened his eyes, feeling dazed. John was grinning at him again, only this time there was a hint of mischief in his smile that hadn’t been there before. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s thighs then stood and reached down to pull Sherlock to his feet.

Still feeling the effects of the whisky and the feel of John’s kisses, Sherlock allowed himself to be led to his bedroom. John placed his hands gently on Sherlock’s shoulders, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the bed as he stepped back and closed the door quietly. He turned around to face Sherlock once more and slowly dragged his eyes up along Sherlock’s body. Sherlock felt a spark of arousal flit down his spine, and struggled to control the pleasant shiver that ran through his transport.

John was openly staring at him again, the mischief and hunger plain to see in his face. Sherlock was suddenly nervous, unsure of himself for the first time in years. He looked away from John’s deep blue eyes, blinking at the carpet beneath his feet.

John’s gentle hand on his jaw forced his gaze back up again, and he gasped as he saw the open affection in John’s face. John leaned down and touched his lips to Sherlock’s again, the urgent heat of the previous kisses now distilled into something deeper.

The emotions coursing through Sherlock’s brain and body were powerful, and he stamped down the urgent panic rising in his throat as John began to unbutton his shirt, trailing kisses down his neck and across his collarbone as he did so.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes fluttering closed as those deft fingers brushed along the waistband of his trousers. Somewhere along the line his shirt had slid off his shoulders and John continued placing soft kisses down his chest as he pressed Sherlock to lie down, onto his back on the bed.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he gasped loudly as John smoothed his hand across the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, the pressure on his erection suddenly easing as John removed both trousers and boxers in one flowing movement.

Completely naked now, and feeling more than a little self-conscious at the thought of John seeing all of his angular, slim body, Sherlock tried to sit up and draw his arms around himself to cover up as much of it as he could. Before he could close himself off however, he heard John’s warm voice through the cold fear in the air around him.

“You’re beautiful,” John murmured. “So beautiful. You’re exquisite, perfect.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush at John’s words but didn’t open his eyes. He tried to force himself to relax, to make his stupid transport obey, but the affection and sincerity in John’s voice was overwhelming. Before the panic could fully take hold John was there, cradling Sherlock in his arms, kissing him softly and murmuring to him.

Sherlock couldn’t remember when John had taken off his clothes and lain down beside him but he sagged into the embrace, his arousal dissipating a little as he struggled to regain control of the emotions continuing to roil through him. John gathered him into his arms even tighter, stroking his hair.

Sherlock couldn’t say how much time had passed but somehow he found he was beneath John, and there was a growing warmth in the pit of his stomach that seemed to extend into his groin and through his legs. The pleasure was gradually building as he slowly became aware of John’s hand wrapped around them both, John’s movements against his body, John’s hot breath against his skin. He cried out as the wave crested over him, flooding his system and silencing his mind. He felt limp and boneless, shuddering as the sensations finally stopped pulsing through him. Dimly he heard John calling his name, and then John flopped down beside him, his face flushed and sweaty.

They caught each other’s eyes, and finally Sherlock understood. He knew now what it was gazing back at him. He could see love in John’s eyes, and he could only hope that his own expressed it just as clearly.

They folded into one another’s arms again, and then drifted into a deep sleep.

******    

Sherlock woke slowly, feeling groggy and heavy. The pleasure and warmth from the body next to him was gone, in its place a cold emptiness. He reached out to touch the person he’d fallen asleep with, but there was no-one there and he couldn’t remember why.

Puzzled and annoyed, he rummaged through his mind palace, sure that he had catalogued some details somewhere that would help him decipher the odd feeling that he had lost something.

Nothing. There was nothing forthcoming about who he had shared an intense, wonderful night with.

Gradually he became aware of his surroundings – soft lighting and a steady beeping noise infiltrated his senses as his brain slowly came back to life. Scratchy sheets, and his feet were freezing. Distinct smell of disinfectant and low voices beside him.

Groaning, he tried to sit up in his hospital bed, only to find a rough hand on his shoulder offering comfort. A spark of hope ignited in his chest, the hand on his shoulder felt familiar but something wasn’t quite right.

He slowly sat up, managed to open his eyes, unsure of what he hoped to see. Lestrade’s soft brown eyes, looking worried but relieved. Lestrade was turning away now, speaking to a doctor who ushered him from the room so that he could properly assess Sherlock’s condition.

Sherlock couldn’t help but feel crushed; he had experienced something passionate and meaningful but it seemed he had been unable to hold onto the details. All he could glimpse was a shape in his mind, a presence that he couldn’t see, or hear, or touch, only feel.

His tether, he had experienced something to do with his tether. That was the only explanation for the sheer intensity of his feelings upon waking.

The doctor was fussing around him, shining a light in his eyes, asking him mundane questions. Sherlock was able to mumble the answers and a retort about the stupidity of asking boring trivia.

The doctor merely shrugged, stepping back and lifting a plastic cup of water to Sherlock’s mouth. He drank gratefully, as his thoughts began to organise themselves.

The suspect in the warehouse had clocked him a good one, the doctor was saying. Sherlock simply nodded, internally retracing his steps to try and pin down something about the tether experience he was so sure had been real at the time.

The doctor examined his reactions once more, and nodded to himself, apparently satisfied.

“You should take better care of yourself in future, Mr Holmes. Your energy levels will be pretty low for a while, seems you hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly,” the doctor chided.

Sherlock tried to shrug in response, sending a wave of nausea and a burst of pain through his aching head. The doctor chuckled, easing him to lie down once more.

“You need to rest, but you’ll be out of here soon enough. You weren’t unconscious for too long and there’s no sign of any lasting damage. We did two scans, just to make sure.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus on his mind palace but sleep tugged at the corners of his thoughts. Just as he felt himself drifting down, the doctor’s voice came to him again.

“Incidentally, I noticed your tether on your scan. I should tell you, Mr Holmes, it’s one of the fiercest connections I’ve ever seen. Your mind, from what I hear, truly is incredible, but the strength of your tether, well…” the doctor trailed off, walking to the door and switching off the lights.

“I hope you meet your tether one day. A love that powerful, that deep, you and your soulmate are clearly meant to be.”

The doctor closed the door as Sherlock internally rolled his eyes at the ridiculous sentiment.

As sleep began to claim him, he found himself wondering, and the doctor’s words echoed into his dreams.

******    

The bright, clean atmosphere at Bart’s was a balm to Sherlock’s frayed nerves. Despite following a lead on the Penrose case that seemed to come to him from nowhere, Lestrade’s arresting Danny hadn’t given him the usual satisfaction of a completed puzzle.

He’d come here to examine the body of a 56 year-old male, collapsed in a restaurant. Molly’s autopsy indicated heart failure, but there was no sign of disease or any discernible reason for the man’s heart to just give out like that. Sherlock suspected poison, possibly one of the waiting staff, more likely the angry daughter who’d just found out she was to be excluded from the man’s new will.

He peered down the microscope, wishing for a case more distracting. Lately his thoughts kept returning to what had happened during his unconsciousness on the warehouse case, and although he still couldn’t grasp any of the details, he felt sure that what he had experienced was real in some way.

The presence of his tether had dimmed but the emotions weren’t diminished; confusion, anger and sometimes a bleak despair that drove Sherlock to torture his violin and yell at his landlady to refocus his energies. He knew that his tether was suffering some kind of depression but he was determined not to allow it to consume his mind as well as that of his connection.

Sighing in frustration, he grumpily scrawled his notes for Molly and loaded the next slide.

The door to the lab then swung open and he heard Mike Stamford’s kindly voice, chatting with someone. Mike walked in and greeted him cheerfully, but it was his companion who immediately gained Sherlock’s full attention.

The deductions that sped across his mind felt oddly familiar – ex-army doctor, psychosomatic limp, genuine shoulder wound, very attractive (not important, Sherlock scolded his wayward brain).

The man was calmly looking around the lab, seeming unperturbed to see a suit-clad stranger lingering at one of the stations.

Intrigued by his unassuming presence, Sherlock resolved to find out more about this gorgeous man who’d wandered into his lab.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?”

Mike smiled knowingly (annoying, Sherlock thought).

“Sorry mate, it’s in my jacket.”

“Here, use mine.”

Sherlock glanced up to see Mike’s companion holding out his phone. Pleased, but resolutely not showing it, Sherlock strode over and reached out to take it, opening his mouth to say a perfunctory thank you.

As he stretched out his hand, his fingers brushed the other man’s, and it was as though a vast array of lights had gone off in his head. He could feel sparks shooting through his body, like electricity coursing within his veins, and the sensations swirled in his mind. It felt as though a lit match had been touched to his tether and his entire being had been ignited into flame.

The feelings and details come rushing back, causing him to drop the phone in his hand and tremble at the force of the feelings surging through him.

“That was absolutely extraordinary. Amazing.”

John Watson.

“He was just a kid, I mean, Jesus.”

Simple plaid shirt, woolly jumper, hiding his powerful physique.

“You’ll want to drop that.” Speaking to Danny.

A kiss, lightning in his head, sensations all over his skin.

“You’re beautiful.”

Love in his eyes.

 _John_.

 

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open and he stared at the man – John – standing there.

From his expression, it was clear that whatever Sherlock had just remembered, John had too. He was gazing into Sherlock’s eyes and there it was. Again, there it was, right in front of him. Love.

It was all so clear now. John was his tether.

“221B Baker Street?” John was smiling softly, his voice warm and full of hope.

Sherlock could only nod, ignoring the widening grin on Mike’s face as he gathered his things. Molly could finish writing up the analysis, she would be able to interpret his chicken-scratch notes.

The two men brushed against each other’s shoulders as they walked out of the hospital building, their bodies unable to maintain any kind of distance, drawn to each other. Sherlock’s hand found itself entwined with John’s, and his heart felt full at the simple touch.

The kiss they shared on the steps of the hospital was full of promise, the connection between them finally fulfilled.

Sherlock didn’t believe in soulmates, until he found John.

 


End file.
